Ragged and Wrent
Click.
Click.
Click.
Pause.
One hand rose slowly, taking the hinged jaw of the wooden mask between forefinger and thumb.
Click.
The elegant hand turned slowly, opening the mask. Something rattled, as though a breeze was blowing through a dying pine tree.
Click.
The hand fell, allowing the reflection to shine from within the mask. The overpowering sensation of something undulating - enhanced perhaps by the slithering noise of metal caressing metal continued.
Click.
The imprisoned spines slipped with eerie silence into their standard place, a veritable forest of two inch long madness. More rustling ensued, and this time it became obvious that the source was the metallic spines.
Click.
The noise approached for some time now. Boots on the cold stone floor. They came back again. The pace of his breath increased, and so too did the rustling of the metal extending from beneath the mask.
Click.
A while now, since he had learned all his body could offer him. So much time passed since he began to put that knowledge to use.
Click.
His hands slid back, and began to pull his hair into a topknot. That remained important, not the topknot itself so much, but the symbolism of it. The imitation of the honorable samurai warriors of old - important. The revenge for them, and him - important.
Click.
Finished with the knot, he allowed his hands to fall, crossing them over his folded legs.
Click.
His captors searched him for weapons when they took him, of course. They found only his knives, hardly his most impressive instruments.
Click.
They stood outside the door now. They stood outside and maneuvering the key noisily in the lock.
Snap.
The lock turned, and the bolt slid aside. The hinges ground against each other, not greased as they remained for so long.
Patience.
For all his brutality and vicious nature, the years had taught him patience. That virtue the only reason he refrained from killed his guards and the men who brought him food to escape. They were fodder, not worth killing.
Bright light splashed across his lacquered mask, burning into the holes that allowed him to see. He stared rigidly through, despite the burning sensation.
“He’s-”
The man failed to complete his sentence, as the captive’s hand struck him solidly in the throat, palm open. He gagged, and then the back of his neck erupted in a splash of crimson as the spike ripped from the captive’s arm.
He fell as it retracted.
The captive stared at the split flesh of his palm, watching curiously as it fused again.
Steel on wood drew his attention as the guards stepped before their leader, preparing to fight. They could conceive no greater honor than to die for their lord.
The captive craned his hands, and the spikes returned, black blood oozing against gravity down their length. The lower half of his jaw fell down, and he hissed through the forest of needles.
He didn’t blink as he moved, appearing between the guards in a moment, pushing aside the sword of the guard to his right with one spike, and driving the other half-foot long stiletto into his temple, spearing the guard almost effortlessly. Such a waste, he considered in the moment he allowed himself to stare into the dying eyes. Another mere weakling controlled by the stronger.
Without concern for his colleague, the other guard drew his sword back, preparing to bring it crashing down through the escaping captive’s skull.
Autonomous, the masked man thought.
His back erupted, the flesh torn asunder in two long furrows as the skeletal metal of his torture freed itself, the six, foot long barbs biting into the guard’s flesh, ignoring his armor like it was grass.
He too gurgled, and then the captive swung his left arm back, the flesh of his forearm splitting and allowing another foot long thorn to free itself, ramming the point of said thorn into the man’s skull.
Two seconds had elapsed since the death of the first guard.
The impassive wooden mask turned to the leader, the eyes within fixated on his face and his eyes.
The eyes registered fear, and triumph.
In the next instant, the left spear embedded itself in the man’s chest, and the right drove up through the bottom of his jaw through to his brain.
More life covered the escapee’s hands.
His tools retracted, and he stood alone in the hall.
Click.
Click.
Pause.
One hand rose slowly, taking the hinged jaw of the wooden mask between forefinger and thumb.
Click.
The elegant hand turned slowly, opening the mask. Something rattled, as though a breeze was blowing through a dying pine tree.
Click.
The hand fell, allowing the reflection to shine from within the mask. The overpowering sensation of something undulating - enhanced perhaps by the slithering noise of metal caressing metal continued.
Click.
The imprisoned spines slipped with eerie silence into their standard place, a veritable forest of two inch long madness. More rustling ensued, and this time it became obvious that the source was the metallic spines.
Click.
The noise approached for some time now. Boots on the cold stone floor. They came back again. The pace of his breath increased, and so too did the rustling of the metal extending from beneath the mask.
Click.
A while now, since he had learned all his body could offer him. So much time passed since he began to put that knowledge to use.
Click.
His hands slid back, and began to pull his hair into a topknot. That remained important, not the topknot itself so much, but the symbolism of it. The imitation of the honorable samurai warriors of old - important. The revenge for them, and him - important.
Click.
Finished with the knot, he allowed his hands to fall, crossing them over his folded legs.
Click.
His captors searched him for weapons when they took him, of course. They found only his knives, hardly his most impressive instruments.
Click.
They stood outside the door now. They stood outside and maneuvering the key noisily in the lock.
Snap.
The lock turned, and the bolt slid aside. The hinges ground against each other, not greased as they remained for so long.
Patience.
For all his brutality and vicious nature, the years had taught him patience. That virtue the only reason he refrained from killed his guards and the men who brought him food to escape. They were fodder, not worth killing.
Bright light splashed across his lacquered mask, burning into the holes that allowed him to see. He stared rigidly through, despite the burning sensation.
“He’s-”
The man failed to complete his sentence, as the captive’s hand struck him solidly in the throat, palm open. He gagged, and then the back of his neck erupted in a splash of crimson as the spike ripped from the captive’s arm.
He fell as it retracted.
The captive stared at the split flesh of his palm, watching curiously as it fused again.
Steel on wood drew his attention as the guards stepped before their leader, preparing to fight. They could conceive no greater honor than to die for their lord.
The captive craned his hands, and the spikes returned, black blood oozing against gravity down their length. The lower half of his jaw fell down, and he hissed through the forest of needles.
He didn’t blink as he moved, appearing between the guards in a moment, pushing aside the sword of the guard to his right with one spike, and driving the other half-foot long stiletto into his temple, spearing the guard almost effortlessly. Such a waste, he considered in the moment he allowed himself to stare into the dying eyes. Another mere weakling controlled by the stronger.
Without concern for his colleague, the other guard drew his sword back, preparing to bring it crashing down through the escaping captive’s skull.
Autonomous, the masked man thought.
His back erupted, the flesh torn asunder in two long furrows as the skeletal metal of his torture freed itself, the six, foot long barbs biting into the guard’s flesh, ignoring his armor like it was grass.
He too gurgled, and then the captive swung his left arm back, the flesh of his forearm splitting and allowing another foot long thorn to free itself, ramming the point of said thorn into the man’s skull.
Two seconds had elapsed since the death of the first guard.
The impassive wooden mask turned to the leader, the eyes within fixated on his face and his eyes.
The eyes registered fear, and triumph.
In the next instant, the left spear embedded itself in the man’s chest, and the right drove up through the bottom of his jaw through to his brain.
More life covered the escapee’s hands.
His tools retracted, and he stood alone in the hall.